


Mark Of Depression

by ConnorProject2K17



Category: Original Work
Genre: Depression, F/M, Sorry Not Sorry, Suicide, abusive parenting, but trust me, i know it sounds bad, it's REALLY well written, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-02
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-03-26 03:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13848774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConnorProject2K17/pseuds/ConnorProject2K17
Summary: Just a short story about suicide. With take different perspectives with each chapter. Main character doesn't have a name, just something I wrote when I was feeling suicidal. Blame the depression if you don't like it, whatever.





	1. Chapter 1

One.

One step.

Then another.

Then one more.

The scratching of the sand buries beneath your toes, and digs beneath your nails. It climbs up your ankles, and sticks to your bare skin. Perhaps wearing shorts wasn't such a good idea.

One more step. 

But what does it matter? By the time they find your body, or if they find it at all, you'll be at the bottom of the ocean.

You take another step.

Finally you reach the water. You shudder as it slaps against your feet and sinks into the sand. But despite the cold you don't give up, and take one more step.

One more step. It's reaching your ankles now. The cold is unbearable, clawing at your shaking legs. But you can't help but power through. The wind had changed pitch, from a light humming to an anguished howl. It blows about your hair and top, and you clutch at your arms to fight against the bitter weather.

Another step.

And another.

It's reached your knees, and they buckle at the feeling. The waves crash against you, almost warning to go back. But you can't. Not now. Not when you've come this far.

One more.

One more.

And one more after that.

It's reached your waist. The cold has made your body numb, and you suppose it's better like this. It'll distract you from the pain later. 

The water pushes your shirt up a small bit, and the foamy waves tickles your stomach. You can't even see your legs anymore, it's too dark. 

The moon is far behind you, along with the rest of the world. Behind you there's a beach and a peer and a city. But all you can see is the endless ocean, with the inky clouds hanging above you. Not a star in the sky. Not even the universe thinks that you're is a big deal. But who cares? Not you. Not anymore.

Your feet are on autopilot now. Brushing past the ocean and carrying you further through the sea. The waves have become unbearable. Smashing against your neck and spraying you in the face. 

The wounds on your wrists re-open underneath the surface, and you hiss as the salt water pours into them. Or is the blood pouring into the ocean? You don't care enough to think about it too much.

One.

More.

Step.

You've finally done it. The water flows past your ears and plays with your hair. You squeeze your eyes shut as the water pushes against them. Your mouth is a thin line, but you can feel the water pushing up your nose. Everything hurts. Your eyes, your mouth, and god your nose feels like it's on fire.

One.

More...

Your feet collapse underneath you. They don't have the strength to hold you up any longer. Your hands float in front of you as you're dragged down. The water pulls you further into the ocean, and deeper down. Pain clogs your nose, and it feels like your throat is on fire. Your eyes can't bare to keep shut any longer, and you open them.

Black. 

All you see is back. You're too far down to see anything else. 

But you're already unconscious before you can realise this.

 


	2. Voices

I open my eyes, and squint as large blinding lights stare back at me. I can feel them burning the back of my skull.

 I blink a few times and try to peer around. My head feels too heavy to move, so I lie back on my pillow.

Wait, pillow?

I'm definitely lying on something soft. My hair is sprawled about my face, and there's something thick lying over me. A blanket?

There's a noise. High-pitched and screechy. It sounds like... wheels? Wheels pushing on a floor. Something else. A door, opening.

 Voices. 

Yelling. 

Beeping. 

It's all giving me a headache. Actually I can't tell if it's starting now or if I just now realised it was there. Anyway, it hurts like hell.

My brain is foggy, and it takes a while to put together the pieces.

Blanket. 

Wheels.

 Voices. 

Beeping.

I'm in a hospital. I'm on a stretcher, of course. I try a bit harder, and grab some memories.

Water. Waves are coming at me from all sides. I'm walking towards something. Away from something? I don't know. There's something beneath my feet. Something soft. Sand. I was walking into the ocean!

If I had the energy I'd curse. Why me? Why was I found? I travelled far, away from the city and into the beach. That journey took at least three hours. Who found me? How long was I under? Has anyone even noticed I left?

Another door opens. I'm pushed through. More voices. I pass out.


	3. Mother

She woke up on a soft bed, with hard pillows and a thin sheet for a blanket. The sound of voices greets her as she squints at the ceiling. Memories flood to her, and she closes her eyes again.

"Do you have any idea what you put me through?!" More voices appear. They seem to be talking to someone. No, wait, they're talking to her.

"All night wasted because you decided to go play hooky! I'm supposed to be out with friends, not chasing after some drugged up teenager!" Yes. Definitely talking to her.

She sits up, leaning on her shoulders. She glares at the overhead lamp as her eyes adjust to the light. Looking over, she sees someone glaring at her, sitting in a chair in the corner. They're still talking.

"All night the police spent looking for you! Think of all the things they'd be better off doing! Instead they're wasting their time pulling you from the ocean!" Oh, so that's who saved her.

"But you already knew that, didn't you? Didn't you?!" she sighs, and falls back onto the pillow.

"Don't you ignore me young lady, how dare you sigh at me-"

The voice trails off as she slips back into unconsciousness.

It's all going to go back to normal soon. Her mother yelling at her. Her friends all ignoring her. Even her boyfriend would rather spend time with some whore than with her. 

Why did she have to get saved? Was it considered saving if she was going back to a worse life. She didn't want this.

She sighs again, and lets these thoughts invade her mind as her mother keeps screaming at her.

Why her?

 


	4. Wonder

"So I'll see you tomorrow, 'kay?"

"Yeah, 'kay."

She watched him go. She watched as he packed up his things into his bag, swung it onto his shoulder and sauntered out the door. She watched as he left her on her own. Again.

It was better this way. This way he couldn't stop her. He couldn't tell her she was crazy, or that he was going to call the police, or that he wanted to break up.

He couldn't tell her he loved her, or that she meant the world to him, or that he would do anything to keep her by his side.

Lies.

All of them.

Lies.

She knew he spent his afternoons with that slut Tracy Tanning. She knew he loved that brown-haired hussy over her. And that when they were together they'd talk about her, behind her back.

She saw the lipstick marks on his collar. The hickeys on his neck. The little whispers they shared between classes when they thought she wasn't watching. But that was the thing, she was always watching.

That was an upside to always being alone. You start to notice things that other people don't. That other people take for granted.

She sat there, on the sofa, in the middle of the room, still staring at the door. She wondered if he was going to Tracy's. How would he get there? Would he take the bus or use that car that he tried to hide from her. Would they have a conversation when he got there, or did they jump straight to the sex?

She sighed, like all the air in her body was being released. Standing up, it felt like her legs were made of toothpicks. She stumbled over to the cabinet beside her TV, placed in the centre of the room, and pulled open the top drawer.

Reaching inside, she removed a shiny, silver handgun.

She had gotten it from her father, who wanted her to use it for self defence. To keep her safe. The irony was almost funny enough to make her laugh. But her face remained stoic as she moved away from the cabinet, not bothering to close the drawer. Standing upright, she faced the mirror hanging on the back wall. And brought the gun to her open mouth. She placed her thin lips around the muzzle, and closed her eyes.

Her finger found the trigger.

As she stood there, she wondered where he was. He was already at Tracy's. Slut.

She wondered why she didn't feel scared. In most movies where someone committed suicide, they would cry and shake and tremble. But she didn't feel anything.

She sighed again. The sound distorts against the cold metal of the gun.

And then she pulled the trigger.


	5. Thoughts

This is a continuation of Wonder, from his perspective. 

 He closed the door behind him, careful not to make too much noise as he went. He knew she was jumpy, and hated all and any sound too loud.

He wasn't sure when she started acting this way. But one day she just... changed. 

From the carefree girl who partied until morning. To the quiet wallflower who stayed in every night. 

She wasn't happy anymore. She didn't like his company, and wanted to be on her own.

He thought about this as he made his way down the corridor. The apartment she lived in was ratty and cheap, but it was close to college and where he lived. He thought about what might have happened to change her. He climbed into the lift, and punched in the number for the bottom floor.

She was always so distant. Never smiling, never glad to see him. Was it any wonder he had started to see other girls?

She didn't know, but he had started to see Tracy Tanning behind her back. The brown-haired minx had always caught his attention, so who was he to turn her down? Especially since his current girlfriend wasn't going to give him any.

He had hidden it quite well, he assured himself as the lift took him down. She hadn't seen the lipstick marks, or the bruises. If she had, she would have said something. Right?

Guilt began to plague his thoughts, and he pushed them down. Who cares if she knows? What's she going to do about it?

The lift stopped, and the doors opened. He climbed out, still lost in thought. He made his way down the corridor, and out the front door into the winter air.

As he walked down the pavement, the constant plague of guilt attacked him again.

But what if she does know? He panicked. What if that's why she's been so down? He pulled the hood of his coat further down, and tugged at his bag.

Alright, he decided, I'll break it off with Tracy tonight. I'll tell her that I can't be with her, and that I love my girlfriend too much. Then I'll go back to said girlfriend, apologise, and i'll be forgiven. Right?

A uncomfortable feeling settled in his gut, and he felt sick. How could he cheat on her? How could he be so pig-headed? The feeling crawled up his stomach, and settled at the back of his throat. He felt sick, like he was going to puke.

Someone elbowed him as they walked past, and he realised he wasn't moving. He was still standing a few metres away from the front door.

He stared at it. Wondering if he should go in. He was so confused.

A gun shot.

A single gun shot rang out from the building. It took a moment to realise that it was real, and not from a TV or a prank or something.

Nobody in the street moved. All fixated on something. He followed their eyes and realised they were all staring at a window.

Her window.

His feet moved without his permission. Carrying him through the front door and into the corridor.

He had to make it before anyone else. He had to be sure.

He ditched the lift and sprinted up the stairs, two at a time. It didn't take long for him to make it to her door, and ripped the keys from his front pocket. Fumbling , he pushed them through the lock, and twisted. The door unlocked, and he pushed past it.

The door to the sitting room wasn't closed.

Making his way through, he saw her.

On the floor.

When someone dies, they're supposed to look peaceful. She didn't look peaceful. She looked dead. There was blood on the floor, splattered against the walls and floor. There was something beside her head, something pink, and veiny. He didn't want to think about what it was.

There was a gun lying beside her, inches away from her hand. He watched it, the hand not the gun. Half expecting her to jump up, and say it was all a prank. But she didn't move.

There were people around him now. Someone screamed. They all pushed and shoved to get to the front, then realised what they were looking at and backed away again. He didn't like it. He needed it to be him and her. Not all these strangers.

Someone had called an ambulance. They asked him some questions but he didn't say anything. They said it was the shock. They took her away, picking her up and placing her on a stretcher, carrying her downstairs. He followed them.

They asked if he wanted to come with her in the ambulance, and he said "yes."

He was travelling beside her. Staring down at the look of shock and lifelessness etched across her face. His phone buzzed.

He picked it up.

'Lol babz. U dtched the bitch yet? Letz get freeky! ;)'

He sent her back a reply. 'It's over. She's dead. Killed herself with a gun. In the ambulance now.'

She didn't text back.


	6. Undertaker

Death amazes me.

Like, think about what the average person has been through in their life. Think about the love and heartbreak, the accomplishments and failures. And how it can vanish in a second.

In the second between life, and death.

What do people think about before they die? Do they concentrate on what's killing them or do they try and distract themselves? It depends on what's killing them.

Before someone dies, is there a mega-thought. Like, everything that they like, combined. Like puppies and milkshakes and bouncy castles. 

How much of someone's life do you actually see? What majority of their lives do they spend away from the eyes of everyone else? How well do you know a person?

So yes, death fascinates me.

It makes sense as I work as an undertaker. Every day I get to stare at dead bodies. Each of them as beautiful as the next.

Sometimes I like to watch them, and wonder how they died. Of course I'll already know, but I like to imagine it, like a play-by-play of what happened.

It's my job to make the bodies look pretty. To play with them a bit before they get carted off to some drab little funeral somewhere. Or I'll make the coffins, it depends on what I'm getting paid for.

The body in front of me right now is nineteen, a college student. She's got a lovely face, nice grey skin with greasy black hair. She mustn't have washed in days. And by the look of those bags underneath her eyes I'd say she didn't go out much either.

The little label tied around her foot says it was a suicide. Oh, I love suicides.

They always mean the bodies in perfect condition. Usually. Not with illnesses that pick away at the skin, or 'accidents' that destroy the bones. No, suicides mean that the body is nice and healthy.

Well, as healthy as a dead body can be, anyway.

Depression is a wonderful disease. It can ruin so many lives, by one person having a bad outlook on life. The family, the partners, the friends. Everyone remembers the person completely after suicides.

They'd say 'They were so nice and warm and caring. Always ready to help a friend or lend a hand. Such a nice person.'

Where was all that when they were still alive, huh?

I grab the makeup from the little box next to me, and get to work. I have to change the skin tone to a healthy pink, and put a wig on her to cover up the hole.

What hole you ask? Why the one that's poking out of the back of her head.

She took a gunshot to the face. Awfully messy, but it gets the job done. If I lean the body the right way, I can see right through it to the other side. But I can't because that'll get me in trouble.

 I've covered up the face now, and start adding lipstick. It's a lovely pink colour, that's supposed to make the person look still alive.

But that's the main problem isn't it? They aren't. 

 These families like to pretend that the body's still alive. That they'll get up any minute and join them for dinner like normal. But they won't. They're dead.

I say, embrace death. Let it hold you by the shoulders and hug you until you can't breathe.

When I die, I'm not going to have any undertaker mess with me. I'm going to lie in my coffin and rot, for all the world to see.

Right, lipstick's done. Onto the mascara.

The bodies' mother says that she loved mascara when she was alive.

 I say that's bullshit. I can tell more about a person when they're dead then most people can when they're alive.

For example, given that this person had not washed or gone outside in many days. They didn't care too much about how they look. So no, she did not love mascara. If I had to guess I'd say she put it on because she was insecure about she looked and wanted people to notice her. Or to stop bullying her. It's hard to tell which sometimes.

The mascara's done. I'd colour in the eyebrows but I don't need to. This person didn't care for makeup all that much, so who am I to change that?

I move further down the body. Yes, she's naked if you were wondering. I don't care for dead bodies. Not in that way, anyway. I like observing them. Not fucking them. 

I stroke the power along her arms with the brush, giving her a nice tan colour that sparkles in the sun. It has glitter added to it so she looks healthy.

There's a large box underneath the bed that she's lying on. It's sent by the family, with a large black bow. I can't tell if they added that, or if the people who made the box did. Whatever, that doesn't matter. In it, there's a beautiful yellow dress. With frills and lace and a big ribbon around the waist done up into a decorative knot.

This is what the body will wear in her coffin. I have to put it on her when I've done with the makeup. It'd be easier to do it the other way around but I can't let any power or lipstick get onto the outfits. By the time I have to put the dress on it won't smudge.

Right. I've finished the arms. I've finished the legs and the neck, onto the dress.

I unravel the ribbon, and pull off the lid. It sits there at the bottom, folded and pressed. It would look better on a bridesmaid than a corpse. Or a corpse bride. Ha. I pick it up and, lifting her body and arms, cram her into the dress. It slides down her skinny frame, and hangs by her ankles. The sleeves wrap around her wrists, covering the ugly scars.

I sigh. What a sad life this girl must have led. It angers me. Her family would rather cover them up and pretend they never happened at all. It makes me sick.

I place her back on the bed, and move to the back of the shop. Her coffin stands in the corner, overshadowed by the bigger, more expensive ones. It's made of cheap wood, and has almost no luxuries, like pillows or silk. It looks small and shy compared to the others.

As I drag it over to her, my anger towards this family grows inside of me.

I pick her up, careful not to smudge the dress or makeup, and placed her inside of the coffin. Hauling it over, I put the lid on top, sealing her away from the world. Someone will remove it again for public viewing. Then someone'll nail it back on by the funeral instructors. But it'll be the last time I ever get to look at her.

The lid slides shut, and she's gone. I stare at it for a moment, thinking about all I've learnt about her, before I hear the door open and the bell ring.

Another customer.

I stand up again and, stepping over the coffin, make my way to the front of the shop and close the door behind me.

I don't look back.

Because despite the morning I've spent with her, she'll always be a girl in a box for me. Like everyone else I see in my job.


End file.
